


Shooting Stars

by NimWallace



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Human Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Softie Crowley (Good Omens), Wingfic, astronomer crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 12:27:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19853182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: Crowley is an astronomer hoping to capture fragments of an asteroid. He isn't expecting his shooting star to be a wounded angel.Dedicated to and inspired by tumblr user mindsummerdream :)





	Shooting Stars

The thing about being an astronomer is, you don't get much, well, _face_ _to_ _face_ contact in your profession.   
That is to say, though Crowley can gaze at the stars from afar, he has never had the opportunity to actually look at one—to touch it, feel it, look at it up close.   
So when the London Center of Space Exploration writes him an email describing an asteroid that they think will hit Shaftesbury, and they want him to go and take samples, he is, of course, ecstatic.   
Normally, geologists do the collecting bit, but apparently a professor at the Center had read a rather reputable paper by A J Crowley and had decided he would be exactly the man for the job.   
Crowley couldn't possibly disagree.   
  
A shooting star is, of course, not really a star. It is actually tiny bits of dust and rock called meteoroids, that, when spiraling into Earth's atmosphere, begins to burn.   
If anything survives the flames and hits earth—that is what we call meteorites.   
The flames are what cause the fantastic streaks of light that spin through the sky.   
Why does this happen?  
Sometimes, as the Earth orbits the Sun, it passes through debris left by a comet. This causes a meteor shower. Of course, Crowley is after an asteroid, which is like a much bigger version of a meteorite.   
Crowley had watched many meteor showers, but had never actually come in contact with one. He didn't have any type of proper geological sampling tools, so he settled on taking gloves and plastic bags and a sharpie, for labeling the bags.  
Oh, and a bottle of Loire Rose. He preferred dark, dry wine for special occasions, and it would be a celebration, of course.  
The professor on the phone had warned him specifically _not_ to go to the area _during_ the shower, but he dutifully ignored that and took a train to Shaftesbury the next morning.   
He shacked up in a nice local inn for the night, where he spent most of his time methodically looking over the pictures that determined the asteroid's orbit and descent. Exactly where it was going to hit was sketchy at best, but Crowley had a sort of sixth sense about this one.  
He wouldn't know if he was right until the next evening.   
  
He packed up his backpack of essentials, grabbed his smallest telescope, and started his trek.   
Shaftesbury was a rural town, small, quaint. Crowley preferred London's bustle and noise, but he could appreciate places like this—places where the light of the city didn't drown out the lights in the sky. It was an excellent place to set up a telescope and wile the night away. Of course, he would've liked to have someone to do it with.   
Got a bit. . .odd. Just talking to yourself about things. He would like to have a pair of eager ears once in a while, someone else who saw the same beauty in the universe he did.   
Oh well. Maybe someday.   
For now, he focused on where his astronomy-senses were taking him.   
He ended up in a large, empty field. It would be very nice if the asteroid were to land there, because it would make finding all the pieces much easier.   
Crowley sat down in the grass, opened his bottle of wine, and waited.   
For maybe an hour, he sat, just drinking and watching. He never lost his sense of childish wonder when it came to space—every time he looked up, he still felt that same sense of excitement and curiosity. _What's up there? Will I ever see it?  
_He was about to.   
  
It came streaking through the sky at exactly 12:34 AM.   
Crowley knew, because as it did he scrambled to check his watch and write the time down before watching in amazement as it soared just over the treeline, the light dying as it fell.   
He gathered up his things and ran in the direction it had gone.   
He wasn't too far off, because it ended up only being about a two kilometers away. Of course, two kilometers feels a bit longer when it is night time and there are mosquitoes about and the terrain is rough.   
Still, not too shabby.   
He brandished his flashlight as he swept the landscape, hunting for the crater.   
There it was.   
Big! Much bigger than he thought it would be! He felt a fresh wave of excitement wash over him. Cautiously, he approached the crater—all organic matter left would certainly be hot. But he could, at least, look at it.   
He got to the edge, shined his flashlight down, and—  
There was no asteroid at all.   
There was a _man_.   
There are several reasons Crowley found this extremely disconcerting:   
1\. A lack of asteroid was, admittedly, very disappointing.   
2\. The man was not burning himself alive, somehow.  
3\. The man was _glowing_.  
“Hello?!” Crowley yelped, because it was the only thing he could think to say.   
“Erm, hello!” the man in the crater said. “I seem to have made a bit of a mistake. Oh dear, this is very embarrassing. Gabriel will _not_ be happy with me—“   
“Isn't it hot down there?” Crowley asked, deciding that the best way to handle this would be to roll with it.   
“It's a bit toasty, just comfortable, I'd say. Oh _no!_ Now this is a problem.”   
This is where Crowley was doubly confused. He was almost as confused as the first time he'd used an ATM. Because the man had just stretched out a _feathered_ _wing_ from his own back. And it looked. . .not good.   
The bird-man flinched as he attempted to flex it. It was bent all the wrong way.   
“That's a wing,” Crowley said stupidly.   
“It's a problem,” bird-man agreed. He climbed out of the hole. “I'm sorry, I don't think I properly introduced myself. I'm Aziraphale.” He stuck out his hand.   
Crowley, dumbfounded, shook it.   
“Crowley,” he said. “And, ehm, what exactly. . .are you?”   
“Oh yes. I'm an angel, a Principality, to be precise. I was popping over here for a visit, they have the _best_ fish'n chips here, you know, and I must have hit something—“  
“So wait.” Crowley held up his hands to pause him. “You're an angel. Like, a supernatural entity that fell from the sky.”   
“Just the sort.”   
Aziraphale smiled.   
It was a bit adorable.   
“And now your wing's injured,” Crowley added as an afterthought. “And I have no asteroid to bring back to London.”   
The angel frowned.   
“I was mistaken for an asteroid? So you're some sort of scientist, then?”  
“An astronomer,” Crowley clarified, a bit bitterly. Now wasn't really the time to be petty, but, well—he'd wanted his rock.   
Aziraphale wrung his hands.   
“Do you think, that, perhaps—“ he licked his lips, “—perhaps I could accompany you, back to London? I could even miracle us there, so you needn't pay for a ticket home. Just—you know, until I fix my wing.”   
Crowley stared at him.   
“You want to stay at my flat?”   
“You seem like a very nice human, and I'm in a rather tight spot. You see, I was already reprimanded last week over an incident with a dead cat that came back to life a bit too suspiciously—“   
“You, _an_ _angel_ , want to stay at my flat because—because you don't want to get in trouble with. . .?”   
“Gabriel. Archangel. Big deal, you know.”  
Crowley put a hand to his forehead.   
Maybe he'd had a bit too much to drink.   
The angel was giving him an awfully pleading look, though. And his wing did look all bent and pathetic. . .and he _did_ come here to bring back a shooting star.   
“Fine,” he said.   
What could go wrong?   
  
  
When Crowley woke up in his flat, a tad hungover and definitely spotty, his first thought was that he'd had a very bizarre dream.   
Then he heard someone humming in the kitchen.  
He leaped out of bed, silently hoping it was some sort of burglar, and crept into the kitchen.   
Nope. It was Aziraphale.   
He had cooked a rather nice looking breakfast, and made tea, and was now quietly humming “Water Music” and reading in a chair Crowley knew he didn't have before.   
“How'd you do all this?” Crowley asked, rummaging around for some aspirin and seltzer.   
“Good morning,” Aziraphale said, looking up in surprise. “I went shopping—your fridge and cabinets are rather barren, you know, and thought you might enjoy a spot of breakfast.”   
Crowley raised his eyebrows.   
“I meant, how did we get back here?”   
“Oh! A small miracle—literally. I just sort of—wished us back.”   
Crowley decided that was enough information for now.  
“How's the wing?” he asked.   
Wincing, the angel stretched it out. It looked worse than before. Crowley tentatively touched it, and Aziraphale immediately flinched.   
“It will heal,” the angel muttered.   
“Want an aspirin?” Crowley said, in an attempt to be helpful.   
“That's very kind, dear boy, but I think some rest will be the best medicine.”   
Crowley shrugged, and found very suddenly that his hangover was cured.   
Maybe having an angel around wouldn't be so bad.   
  
For the next week, Crowley got to know Aziraphale a bit.   
His habits were niche, but not peculiar. He seemed to enjoy books, and food, and classical music. He often invited Crowley to dine out, as a sort of payment for letting him stay, and his taste in restaurants was admittedly excellent.   
Crowley often found him pouring over an old tome or making notes beside one. By the end of the week, they had fallen into a sort of comfortable pattern—they were very compatible flatmates (a rare thing indeed) and Crowley found he was actually enjoying the angel's company.   
He told Professor Knox that the asteroid was simply a no-show, a mistake, and went back to going to the Observatory and studying there. One evening, Aziraphale even went with him, eager to “learn something new” and perhaps even “spot that one that Uriel said looked like him”.   
Crowley thought it would be annoying, but. . .Aziraphale actually _listened_ to him. He genuinely seemed to find what Crowley was saying interesting, and made comments and asked questions. By the end of the night, Crowley had smiled and laughed more times than he had in years.   
But the angel couldn't stay forever.   
His wing was healing—it got worse first, but then gradually began to heal. Angels heal faster than humans, and Crowley suspected that Aziraphale's wing had already healed a while ago. But he was just as reluctant to leave as Crowley was to let him go.   
“Perhaps we should talk,” the angel quietly said one night.  
They sat down, facing each other, and Aziraphale suddenly looked quite sad, and Crowley knew what was about to come. Aziraphale managed to meet his eyes, and smile a bit.   
“My wing is healed,” he said softly. “I want to thank you—for everything. You've truly been gener—“   
“Right, yeah,” Crowley said, words a bit thick. “'S no problem.”   
Aziraphale smiled.   
“Well, as a thank you, of sorts—I had something arranged.” He handed Crowley a scroll. Crowley went to unravel it, but Aziraphale stopped him.   
“After I leave,” he explained. Crowley nodded.   
“Well, erm, good luck,” he said. “Back up there, Hope you don't get in any trouble.”   
“Thank you, dear fellow. And good luck to you here. Perhaps I could. . .visit.”   
They shook hands, and Crowley tried his best not to cry, or kiss him, or cry.   
“Right. Goodbye.”   
And the angel was gone.   
  
  
It took Crowley a few moments to gather himself before he could properly examine the scroll.   
He swallowed, turning it over in his hands. It had a lovely red ribbon around it.   
Gingerly, he untied the bow and let the paper unravel. It read, in very elegant handwriting, like this:   
  
_Anthony J Crowley,  
In the Name of Heaven Itself, I, Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, dub you Saint of Astronomy.   
May the stars glimmer in your honor.   
  
_Aziraphale got back to Heaven, and found it a bit empty.   
“Sorry I'm late,” he told Gabriel, even though time didn't actually exist there.   
“Aziraphale. How is “earth” doing?”   
“Good, good.”   
He walked around for a bit, feeling strangely saddened. He wondered if Crowley was reading his letter—if he liked it. He found himself thinking about the human for a very long time.   
_I think I must have left something in his flat,_ he thought hopefully. _Maybe. . .my first edition copy of Dorian Gray? Now I can't have that going missing. . ._   
“I left something, I'll be right back!” he squeaked suddenly to Gabriel.   
“Aziraphale—“   
He disappeared.   
  
“Crowley! Are you still here? I—“   
He was interrupted as a certain saint yanked him into a kiss.   
_Oh,_ he thought. _I think I could get used to this._


End file.
